


Expenditures

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Blow Jobs, Boss/Employee Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young intern named Neiman impresses; Fletcher makes him his new personal assistant. Boss/intern AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expenditures

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/post/117655161452/fletcher-andrew-49) on tumblr as a prompt from comorbidities — boss/intern AU. It's pretty much the same, but I fixed some syntax problems and maybe added like three words.
> 
> Warning for slurs, as per usual with the canon source. 
> 
> In this Andrew wears glasses because mainly, have you seen Teller wearing glasses as Reed Richards?! The image was too great.

“Listen up, cocksuckers!” Fletcher says, rushing into the room in a hurry, and when he slams the conference room door behind him the pane glass decorated with the company’s name rattles threateningly. Immediately, his employees stop chattering and scurry to find a place to sit around the long conference table, and once musical chairs has been played and there are no more seats, they line the walls. In silence, they wait for him to sit at the head of the table and start the weekly meeting.

Ah, to have power. He relishes in it.

He shuffles his papers looking for nothing in particular, using the pause to make the tension in the room grow heavier, causing their worry to grow. The wait is the most important part. What’s even better is when someone admits a fuck-up before he even has to broach the subject, when it looks like they’re about to piss their pants in fright while telling him just how epically they messed up.

However this time, nobody claims any mistakes so he leans back in the chair — it squeaks — and steeples his fingers.

“Carl,” Fletcher says, and his gaze falls heavily on Carl Tanner, who’s now sitting up straighter in his chair and running a hand through his hair, and a nervous flush creeps up to his face from a spot beneath his unbuttoned shirt collar ( _messy_ , Fletcher notes). “What happened to the Nordwind job?”

And Carl — Carl who has been doing a so-so job as his personal assistant — stutters as he tries explain, “I didn’t do anything wrong! I guess there were some files missing, and I didn’t realize. How could I know? I’ll fix it, I promise—”

“You’re damn well right you will.” Fletcher slams his hand on the table for emphasis, jolting the coffee mugs of those sitting closest to him. Fletcher had planned to let the subject drop but not now, because Carl smiles at his sort-of affirmation. Carl’s too comfortable, too dependent on doing half-ass work and getting by, and that Fletcher cannot have in his company.

“How?” he asks.

“What?”

“How are you going to fix the problem?” Fletcher asks, elaborating.

Carl hem-haws like an idiot, panicking and muttering, “Well, I don’t know yet but—”

Fletcher lets him frantically work through the problem a little bit more — hell, he’s content to have everyone sit here all day long until Carl can come up with a solution.

That is, until he hears a nervous remark that breaks the silence.

“Who the fuck was that?” Fletcher demands, and the entire gaze of the conference room pivots to the back of the room. There, the interns stand against the wall: Ginger and Slouch. Ginger side-eyes Slouch and takes a step to his left, away from his intern counterpart. Slouch looks around the room, careful not to look at anybody directly, and clutches a folder in his arms closer to his chest.

Slouch clears his throat, and pushes his dark plastic-rimmed glasses up the ridge of his nose before wrapping his arm back around him. “Um, that was me.”

Fletcher gestures with a hand in the air. “And?”

“I was saying that if we reallocated funds from the primary account,” he explains, his voice growing more confident the more he speaks, “and then apply part of that to the losses of the error and then keep them on that section account, then it should be okay.” He looks up to Fletcher, and his mouth up-turns into a slight grin. “In fact, we’ll— _you'll_ probably come out with more money than we would've normally.”

Stunned silence fills the room. Carl looks between Slouch the intern and Fletcher, protesting, “No, that can’t work.”

Fletcher holds up a hand to silence him, and quickly runs the numbers in his head. If he’s correct (which is almost always is), the intern is right. Leave it to Carl-fucking-Tanner to never figure out switching the funding inputs like that.

“What’s your name?”

“Andrew Neiman, sir,” Slouch answers. Fletcher lingers on him; he’s young — maybe not even hitting twenty yet, his clothes hang on him awkwardly, and before now Fletcher had never devoted any attention to him.

The way this kid — Neiman — is waiting on edge for his response embodies the obedience that Fletcher strives for in others.

“Neiman, you just became my new personal assistant.” Neiman’s eyes widen in shock and his intern buddy Ginger gives him a playful punch on the arm. Fletcher observes this, and then slides his gaze over to a sputtering Carl and says, “Sorry Carl, new blood.”

“But—”

“Be sure to clear your desk for Neiman.”

Neiman beams. It catches Fletcher’s attention.

 

 

Neiman is doing very well as his personal assistant. He’s at his every beck and call. Fletcher asks him to jump? Andrew asks how high. He’s sincere and resourceful, and to Fletcher’s pleasure, can give a verbal thrashing worthy of acknowledgment (just yesterday Fletcher heard him yelling at someone on the phone because of a late shipment). The kid’s dedication is admirable, and Fletcher’s grown fond of his bespectacled lumbering form being around, at a desk right outside his office.

So, to keep it interesting, Fletcher assigns Ginger intern — who he learns is named Ryan — as his co-assistant.

As expected, it infuriates Neiman.

“I thought I was your only one!” he spits, throwing down a stack of papers on Fletcher’s desk.

Fletcher shrugs. “Then prove you have some initiative.”

Neiman huffs, shoves his hands into his pockets, and stalks out of the room.

All Neiman has is initiative — he’s full to the brim with it — so Fletcher’s comment doesn’t have much face value, but Neiman doesn’t know this and if Fletcher could weasel more out of him? Then so be it.

 

 

He did not expect his power play to end up with Neiman sucking his cock in his office after everyone else had left for the day.

Neiman had came in and shut the door behind him, not bothering to lock it, walked around Fletcher’s desk and said with directedness, “I want to blow you.”

And, well.

“When I said prove your worth, I didn’t mean this,” Fletcher gasps, and thrusts a hand into Neiman’s hair, wrapping his fingers around dark locks.

Neiman pulls his mouth off his cock, making an obscene wet noise. “You want me to stop?”

Fletcher looks down at him, and he looks so out of sorts — glasses crooked, flushed face, tie loosened, spit pooling at the corners of his mouth and running down his chin. His eyes travel downward and sees the outline of Neiman’s erection in his slacks.

Neiman is a go-getter, that’s for sure. Not that it makes Fletcher feel less of a creep. Despite that, he guides Neiman’s mouth back to his dick. “I never told you to stop,” he says, his voice hitching as Neiman starts again. “You never listen, that’s why I promoted Ryan.”

That makes Neiman give it his all, hollowing his cheeks and taking him as far as he can. A few jerks of his hips later Fletcher pulls back, aims, and comes on Neiman’s face.

Fletcher looks at Neiman, whose mouth hangs open for a moment before he quickly takes off his glasses and wipes them on his sleeve. Then, as though as an afterthought, he rubs his face on his sleeve to clear the bit that landed on his nose and cheek. It obvious that Neiman didn’t know what to say — he’s always awkward with his words.

Fletcher tucks himself back into his pants. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says. “I was going to bump him back down tomorrow. Ryan’s an idiot.”

Neiman sits on his haunches and looks slyly up at him. “It gave me an excuse to do what I’ve been wanting to do.”

Fletcher considers it, thinking of seemingly accidental brushes of their hands when Neiman would hand him fresh off-the-printer copies or a flash drive loaded with expense reports, how Neiman would lean into him as he stood behind him pointing to something on the computer, how Fletcher is the only person that Neiman will make eye contact with.

He sighs, because he had been too stupid to notice that his assistant was coming on to him. To be fair, it has never happened before, because everyone else is too afraid of him.

And more so, Neiman is hapless in his version of flirting.

“Stand up, Neiman,” Fletcher says, and ever obediently, Neiman does as he instructs. Neiman leans back against Fletcher’s desk, and as Fletcher undoes his belt he says, “This doesn’t mean you get a pay-raise.”

“Of course not, sir.”

Regardless, Fletcher makes a mental note to draft the paperwork to give Neiman a twelve-percent increase. Neiman could file it himself in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry I don't really know anything about how an office works or about investments or work accounts


End file.
